Intercepted Mail
by Lossenrhos
Summary: Imagine if you could take all those letters that were never actually sent to their owners, all those stormy confessions and angry diatribes that ended up on the fire or in the bin. Well, here are some I imagine being written by members of the HP universe.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Rowling wrote HP not me. And I must say I'm quite glad I don't own this particular guy.

Letter One- Tom Riddle to his father of the same name.

Dear Father,

How to begin this letter? Perhaps I ought to introduce myself. You do not know me. We have never met. In all probability you do not even know my name.

Your name.

I am your son. Shameful for us both, I imagine, to admit it, but it is so. Some portion of the blood that flows through my veins is yours. In place of sixteen years of birthday presents you give me this one gift. This exalted heritage. _Half blood._

Sometimes, in dreams I find myself washing myself scrubbing my skin over and over until I bleed, and then finally I know I am rid of your stench. I would do it too, if I knew I could be rid of you in that manner. Unlike you in your fine mansion, I am no stranger to pain.

But of course, I know better than to think such actions could free me of you. This corruption runs deeper than my skin; it resides within my blood, within the very marrow of my bones. Only blood will wash it clean. Blood to cleanse blood. With every piece of muggle scum I wipe from this world, I wipe out you. With every crime I commit I become a little purer. It's worth it. It is. And yet- she lay so still. Her eyes were empty. And I wished- only for a moment- I wished I hadn't done it. That snotty little mudblood with the watery eyes, I wished she wasn't dead. I held her in my arms, half raising that flaccid body off the damp floor; I tried to shake her back to life.

That shouldn't have happened. It wasn't me that spoke those words, _don't be dead Myrtle, please don't be dead_. I am the Heir of Slytherin and I have no pity. No. It was you. Your blood within me calling out to the worthless little girl, your own kind. Deep within me polluted part of me, fogged with muggle humbug and sentimentality you made me want her alive even as she hit the floor. But I defied you, I resisted that sickness within me and every time I do that you get a little weaker. Salazar Slytherin would never have raised the girl up off the soiled floor. He would have left her where she belonged. But one day, yes, one day I will be worthy of him. Worthy of what I will become.

Oh, yes. I will kill again. One death is not enough to appease the sordid flood of corruption within me, I see that now. Even now I still wake at night, seeing her face, feeling her body hit the ground and I know that you're still there. Oh, you're hold may be weakening but you're still strong.

Once I would have rejoiced at the thought of having a part of you within me. Those first ten years at the orphanage I used to dream about you all the time. Bright technicoloured fantasies of love and revenge. You would be an explorer only just returned from a dangerous mission to find your wife dead, and now you had come to search for me. You were a soldier captured by the Bolsheviks but now you had escaped, walking barefoot across the Russian steppes to find me. Oh, you're roles varied: spy, magician, superhero, prince, but one thing never changed. You were always always looking for me. And when the time was right you'd be there striding in through the Orphanage gates. You would place me on your shoulders and ruffle my hair and ask me all about how I had been treated these past years. I would tell you everything, and you would be angry. That was the best part of the dream, your anger. I would watch you as you swept down upon the matron like a howling like a thunderstorm, knocking her down the stairs, crushing all the life out of her over inflated body with one flick of your finger. You would take the girls who laughed at me, the boys who hit me and throw them against the wall. Standing side by side we would hear their skulls crunch and we would laugh. Like a Samson you would tear down the orphanage walls around their ears until it was all destroyed and we alone would be left standing. Oh, yes. You were Superman.

All things change. Now, you see, I am my own superman. Now in my dreams it is I who blast that grey building into oblivion, who brings vengeance like a tidal wave before me. And I don't only dream. Oh no. Night and day I prepare for the time when I will do it. I will eradicate them all. And you shall be the first. When the time is right, when every incident falls into place I will break forth from this hidden shell and find you. Before many years have passed I will look down on your body and laugh, Tom Riddle.

And when it is done I will rise, re- born, a phoenix from the ashes. Then and only then will I take my place as a true son of Salazar Slytherin. I will be purer than the purest Black or Malfoy, because I had the courage to bring it about myself. The day Tom Riddle dies I shall be truly born, blossoming into the identity I have so carefully built for my self. I am Lord Voldemort. Every last particle of your polluting presence will be washed from my memory in the river of your blood.

So there you have it. My deepest ambition. Don't you think it fine? Don't you think it noble? How many Gryffindor's could boast that they had had the courage to pluck shame from their very breast, to spill their own blood that they may be re- born?

And every day the days draw nearer. I am close now. I can feel it.

I sign myself, for the last time

_Tom Riddle_


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, and his world belong to the fabulous JK Rowling, and her publishers. Warner Brothers has a stake in their too. But believe me, if I owned Neville, I'd give him a hug.

Letter Two- Neville Longbottom to Severus Snape.

Dear Professor Snape,

I am writing this because I have to learn to stick up for myself. Everyone says so. My Gran says it. Harry and Ron and Hermione and Dean and Seamus and Lavender and Parvati have all said it at one time or another. The nurses at the hospital said it. Madam Pomfrey said it. Even Professor McGonagall said so once. So here I am sticking up for myself.

It's not fair the way you treat me. It's not fair the way you treat any of us. I know I'm not very clever. My gran used to think I was a Squib. Sometimes I wish I was. Perhaps it would be better than hanging on to the edge of this world, never quite good enough however hard I study. I know you don't think I'm good enough to be here but I do try so hard to catch up with the others and be a proper wizard. It's just every time I make an achievement or get a little further you sneer at me and everything turns to dust. When I sleep sometimes I hear your voice in my ears telling me how hopeless I am and then it's gran's voice, and Professor McGonagall's voice and Malfoy's…

I'm tired of sitting there and listening to you sneer. If you're so clever and we're so stupid why do you have to make us feel small? If it's so impossible that we will ever do anything right why do you even bother to teach us? And why don't you leave Harry alone? He's far cleverer than me and he hardly ever does anything really bad. Perhaps I deserve to be treated the way you treat me, but Harry doesn't. He's one of the bravest, cleverest, best people I know. Ron Weasley says you're just a bitter twisted git and when I see you hissing insults at Harry I think he must be right. You're horrible.

But then, perhaps you can't help being horrible. Perhaps it's something you're born with, like being stupid. Everyone says I should be more confident, less clumsy, less stupid… but no one tells me how. Is that what it's like being horrible? I can't tell. Perhaps you ought to talk to Hermione. She's always very good at telling people how to do things- like make potions or walk past a crowd of Slytherins who are all laughing at you. Only I'm not very good at carrying out her instructions. I always start off all right, not looking at them and sticking my chin out. Then I trip over something and it's worse than ever.

Perhaps we are the same in that. We both try to be different from what we are but we keep going wrong. I try to be brave but I keep stumbling. You try not to be mean but you can't hold your tongue.

Somehow that makes me feel better.

Neville


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Neither Ronald Weasley nor Hermione Granger are mine. If they were I'd hit them both for being stupid and dating other people. And then pay for them to have a romantic candle- lit dinner to make up for it.

Letter three- Ron Weasley to Hermione Granger

Dear Hermione,

I am writing this by wand light in my dormitory. The others are asleep. I've pulled the curtains of my four poster shut, just in case. I don't want Harry to ask what I am doing. I couldn't explain.

I just wanted to say- you were right. You're always right. I should have asked you to the Ball first, before Krum did. It's just somehow I thought you'd always be there. I wanted you always to be there, my friend, Hermione. Just that. Not someone else's girlfriend.

I always thought somewhere that there was a special part of you only I saw. Something about the way your eyes flash when their angry, the way your arm feels against mine on the desk. The way you smile. But he sees it to. I could tell from the way he looked at you. He knew that you were special, you were different, you were _Hermione _and only I was supposed to know that.

You didn't even see me, that's what hurt the most. I'd gone out into the entrance hall to look for you and I saw you coming in with the Durmstrang students and _him_ and you didn't even look at me. It was like I saw a new Hermione. Everything was different not just your hair and your dress but you. You were happy and laughing and I was invisible to you. You weren't my Hermione anymore. Not my friend or Harry's but Krum's- his- _girlfriend. _

I never felt like that before. I felt like I wanted to- I dunno- hit someone or something. I wanted to do something to make you look back at me, the way you used to. It was the opposite to a Veela- spell. Instead of feeling floaty and happy, I felt sick and churned up and hot. I couldn't stop watching you however hard I tried dancing and chatting to him as if his arm belonged around your waist, and saying "Viktor" in that soft proud voice.

I know what you'd say if you read this. I can see you before my eyes, looking at me with that glance that won't let go. Why Ron? Why can't you bear it that I'm happy with someone else? You always have to know. You always have to get to the bottom of everything. You'd never leave things be. Why? Why? Because I like you.

There. I said it. I like you. I like the way your mouth twitches when you're trying not to smile, I like the way your eyes seem to darken when you're thinking. I like the way you fold your arms when you're cross, the way your nose wrinkles up when you're disgusted. I like the way your hair sticks up everywhere and always falls around your face when you try to pin it back.

I like the way you stick by Harry and me even when we've treated you badly, I like the way you can get so caught up in things you forget everything else. I like the way you help Neville in Potions, and always know how to cheer him up. Best of all I like the way you smile at me when I've got it right, and that feel that you might even be glad I'm your friend.

I took you for granted. And I'm sorry. I wish I'd asked you first. I wish I hadn't said all the things I did.

I wish I had the courage to send this letter.

Ron


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own Remus. If I did Tonks wouldn't get an elbow in edgeways. He would be mine, all mine, mwahaha! I don't own Harry or Petunia or Dudley or Dedalus. I don't even own the violet top hat.

Dear James,

I saw your son today.

I shouldn't have gone. It was against Dumbledore's orders- although if Heaven doesn't change people too much that won't shock to you. I've been out of work again, which isn't much of an excuse but being at a loose end, well, it does things to you. You know. I keep remembering how things used to be, the five of us- You, Lily, Peter, Black and I - I keep thinking it was perfect. Of course, it can't have been. Not if Black had already decided… It's strange I really can't believe it after all this time. That you are dead and by _his_ hand. We must have been walking around in blindfolds all those years or else he was wearing such an impenetrable mask… can you imagine? Impetuous, impulsive Sirius Black, who always wore his heart on his sleeve, who despised trickery and slyness. That can't all have been a lie. He can't have been deceiving us, even then. But which of my memories were lies and which were true? The false Sirius merges imperceptibly with the boy we knew. When did he change? Why?

It's true you saw more of Black than I did in that last year. Regrettably. He must have told you I was the spy. I see it now. It's the only thing that makes sense of that sudden distance that grew between us that year. At the time I thought, forgive me, I thought that perhaps when you had Harry… I thought perhaps you and Lily had thought better of your acquaintanceship with a werewolf. And of course, Peter followed your lead as he always did. And Sirius… I was surprised at Sirius. But he was Harry's godfather after all. What a fool I was! I should have known you wouldn't treat me like that. I still remember the day you found out, all of you - you were the first one to take a step towards me. The first to break that hushed silence, to put a hand on my arm and tell me not to be daft, you'd stand by me. How could I have thought you'd turn away from me without a word of explanation? I should have talked to you, should have told you whatever Black said was lies- perhaps then you wouldn't have trusted him when the time came. Perhaps you would still have survived.

But no. I was too proud to chase after the friend who rejected me and now three lives have been lost. Because of me. Perhaps after all a werewolf doesn't have to bite to spread its curse. And I know what you'd say. I'm being morbid. There wasn't anything I could've done, not really. You'd never have believed me over Black. You loved him, like the brother you never had. I remember you telling me that._ The brother I never had._ I was foolish enough to feel almost jealous – a strange irrelevant stab of pain. Of course I see now how lucky I was – the friendship you and Peter gave me was the deepest, the most precious thing… and I won't ever know such friendship again. I was lucky to know it at all. I _am_ lucky.

My mind runs in circles these days, like the wolf in the Shrieking Shack. When I woke up in the morning there was a thick tangle of footprints on the dusty floor. But I am rambling. I wanted to tell you about Dedalus Diggle. You remember Dedalus? Tiny man with a liking for top hats. He's one of the few of the old Order who still keeps in touch. People want to forget the War. You can't blame them.

Anyway, Dedalus asked me if I wanted to go for a walk with him and of course I did. It had been ages since I'd seen anyone from the Order. We walked around Diagon Alley and of course he began talking about you, and about little Harry. Together we worked out he must be eight years old now, eight years and seven months. And then Dedalus suggested we go to see him- of course, I laughed but he only smiled and said he thought he knew a way.

We Apparated together to Little Whinging in Surrey - apparently that is where Petunia lives now, with her husband. I am ashamed to say we spent an entire morning loitering in a muggle supermarket. I should have turned back. I know I should but - I kept thinking about you and wondering whether Harry would look like you did at that age and whether he still had Lily's eyes. I saw him so seldom as a baby.

When at last he came, we almost missed him. Dedalus suddenly grabbed my arm and dragged me behind a shelf.

"There!" he hissed in my ear, pointing over the top of the selection of pasta sauce jars. In the next aisle a skinny woman, blonde hair pulled back in a bun, was straining to push a trolley in which a boy sat, languidly pulling items from the shelves and piling them up around him.

"Are you sure you want to get Cocoa Pops, Diddums?" The woman sounded slightly out of breath. "I thought you liked Shredded Wheat…"

"I want Cocoa Pops!" The boy commanded.

I'd forgotten Petunia had a son of her own. She had changed a great deal since the last time I'd seen her. She looked older, harder and the pulled back hair didn't suit her at all. I looked around for Harry but I couldn't see him. I only had a limited view of the aisle, and I was cricking my neck as it was. Dedalus sniffed impatiently, and tugged at my coat sleeve.

"Come on. We can't see anything from here." He said and before I could stop him he had ducked down the aisle and into the next. When I followed him, I swear, I only meant to bring him back, to stop him from breaking all of Dumbledore's strictures laid down for Harry's safety. But when I entered the aisle I froze. I saw him, James. And he looked so much like you: that thin pale face, chaotic hair, glasses reflecting the white glare of the supermarket light. It was the same face I had seen all those years ago on the Hogwarts Express.

But he didn't walk like you, James. He bent his head a fraction as though fearing a reproof, and he scrunched himself up as though not wanting to occupy too much space. And then he looked up, eyes open and curious, Lily's eyes. His mouth fell open too when he saw Dedalus (it was the hat, I suppose.)

Dedalus seemed just as dumbstruck to be confronted with the Boy Who Lived in the flesh and for a moment they simply gaped at each other. Then, embarrassingly, Dedalus sunk into a deep bow, his top hat tipping and then tumbling off his head.

"Boy! Why are you dawdling? You –" Petunia Dursley met my eyes, and blanched. She looked from me, to Harry, to Dedalus and back again.

"Come away!" She grabbed Harry and, with surprising strength lifted her heavy looking son out of the shopping trolley. "We're leaving."

Her son howled, complaining about the abandoned cocoa pops but Lily's sister ignored him. She yanked both boys away with her, down the aisle leaving her shopping behind.

Harry looked back, as his aunt pulled him away, at Dedalus and there was something oddly yearning in his glance, as if he were memorising his face. He didn't even glance at the greying man in the ash coloured coat who stood by Dedalus' side. If he had I think he would have seen his own expression, mirrored in mine. Your son, James. And he isn't happy.

I will have to tell Dumbledore. The child is not happy. It isn't right. What was that Dursley woman doing, putting her son in the trolley and leaving Harry to trail behind? To show such open signs of preference is unforgivable. There must be somewhere else Harry can go. There _must_ be.

Of course Dumbledore will ask how I know this and I will have to admit I broke his orders. You would want me to do it, I know. And I will. I will. Oh, James if only you were here, you and Lily, it is so hard to be strong when you're alone.

I must go. This letter is fruitless. I must see Dumbledore. I must beg him to help your son.

There seems no fitting way to end this letter. I suppose I must just say in the old way.

Farewell, Prongs. May your pranks be fruitful and may your marauding nights be bright.

I miss you.

Remus


End file.
